


Solid Ground

by nebulein



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Dark, Depression, Hurt No Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:19:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28760928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nebulein/pseuds/nebulein
Summary: Jonny can't remember what it feels like, to be himself. Confident. Energetic. Proud. Himself. What does that even mean? It's been weeks. Months. Years. All he knows is, he feels wrong. Weak. Pathetic. Broken.Empty.He feels empty, watching the fourth goal go in. Feels it, yawning wide, like a cavity in his chest. Loss still tastes bitter filtered through a TV screen.
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Kudos: 32





	Solid Ground

**Author's Note:**

> Written after the Chicago Blackhawks 20-21 season opener against the Tampa Bay Lightning, 01/13/2021.
> 
> Heed the tags.

They lose. It's not new. Sitting at home, watching his team on TV. Wishing he were out there. Feel his skates cutting into the ice, hear the boys shouting and tapping their sticks, the slap thunk woosh of the puck across the ice. His chest itches and he scratches at it, for a second expecting to feel the edges of the letter patch underneath his fingers before he remembers. He's home. Alone. Wearing a soft STRENGTH shirt and gym shorts instead of pads and sock tape. Ironic, really, when that's what's missing. He would be out there, with them, if he had any strength left. Weak. Pathetic. Broken.

Empty.

He feels empty, watching the fourth goal go in. Feels it, yawning wide, like a cavity in his chest. Like a hull of himself. A mockery, just like this team. His team. Would he make a difference? Would Dach? Crow? Seabs? How many pieces can you take away and still call what's left a team?

Shot. Block. Icing. Loss still tastes bitter filtered through a TV screen. Refinance your mortgage. Buy a new car. Ask your doctor if oxygen is right for you. He gets up, suddenly restless. Walks to the window. It's dark outside. He doesn't live in a high rise anymore, doesn't get the Chicago lights spread out underneath him anymore. He gave that up. Just like love. Just like hockey.

Just like himself.

He can't remember what it feels like, to be himself. Confident. Energetic. Proud. Himself. What does that even mean? It's been weeks. Months. Years. All he knows is, he feels wrong. But what if this is it? What if this is himself now? What if it'll never get better, if he'll never find that core of him again? He's tired. Tired and restless and drained. There must be something he can do, something… he sits back down. Watches the game. Suddenly glad that he's not out there, getting humiliated on national TV. That they suck without him. That maybe, they need him still. Fuck, he wishes he were out there. Taste the sharp bite of ammonia in the air, feel the sweat drip down his back, the trilling slice of a whistle blowing the play dead. Can almost feel a stick between his hands like a phantom limb. He flexes his fingers. Nails filed down because he started biting. The small scab where he picked at his cuticle too much. He should eat dinner. Something warm. Chickpea pasta, maybe. Or at least a shake. Smoothie. Something. He will. Once he finds the energy to get up. Go to the kitchen. It's only two rooms. It may as well be Florida for how far it seems. He's so tired. Empty. Alone.

The Hawks score a goal. Strome on the powerplay. Jonny remembers what it feels like to be out there. Be with the team. To just for a moment, forget everything else and give it his all. He remembers coming back to hotel rooms and falling onto the mattress, crying himself to sleep because he felt so exhausted afterwards. Like the game was taking more than he could give. Like he kept trading away pieces of himself, reaching inside and pulling them out, leaving them on the ice, the bus, the locker room. Hollowing out, an echo chamber, where nobody could hear you scream.

He looks at the whiskey, now locked inside his cabinet. Thinks about the pills on his bathroom counter, the guided meditation playlist on his phone. It's gonna be another late night. Another morning waking up and feeling nothing but dread. Limbs like lead. The day looming ahead, endless hours stretched before him, insurmountable.

He's forgotten. In between, he's forgotten what a luxury sleep is. The sweet few hours of unconsciousness. Now he's left chasing it again, managing to only catch snatches here and there. Gliding through his fingers like water, like sand. Funny how you can drown in both.

Staring at his bedroom ceiling in the darkness, he misses it. The sound of another person, breathing, sleeping, alive. Now, nothing but quiet. He used to be miserable, that first year on the road. But at least he hadn't been alone.

Turns on his noise machine. Pulls up the weighted blanket. Counts to ten and tries to feel his toes. His calfs. His knees. Deep breaths. Tries to relax.

5-1. It stings. They lost. It's nothing new.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand. He's not supposed to look at screens after ten o'clock. Grabs it anyway.

_We missed you out there buddy._

_This is to confirm your appointment on the 21st, 4 pm. If you need to cancel, please call..._

_Did you watch the game? Brutal._

_Dayna is making brisket. Bring some wine. And don't be late._

_Hey cap, tough start. Not the same without you. Hope your feeling better soon._

_Check this out: bit.ly/asii78j?#_

_Lol, what a bitch!!!_

_Heard you called before the game. Can't believe I missed it! The boys were really hyped. Thx._

_Tell me I'm not the only one going out of my mind watching this._

_Your aunt Lisa is thinking about buying a Tesla. Give her a call, would you? She's looked into..._

_AHAHAHA YOU GUYS SUUUUUUUUUCKED!! :D_

He scrolls down. Up. Finally finds it.

**Kaner**

Last seen: 1:35 a.m.

_Sorry._

Jonny blinks. Breathes. Shuts off his noise machine. Swallows against the urge to scream. Or cry.

He's so tired of it all.

Clicks on reply. Types it out. Heart beating in his chest. Breath loud in the deafening silence. Doesn't know what he's doing here anymore, but he can't… Wipes at his eyes. Hits send.

_Me too._

He lost.

The game. His love. Himself.

It's nothing new.

* * *

_help me // I'm falling // this time I'm going down_   
_save me // I'm falling // I'm hitting solid ground_


End file.
